


Les Fenêtres de l'Âme

by latin_cat



Category: Historical RPF, Master and Commander - Patrick O'Brian, Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:10:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst visiting Paris in order to give his address to the Institute, Stephen comes under suspicion of spying from all sides. (Set during <i>The Surgeon's Mate</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Fenêtres de l'Âme

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Les Yeux](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7191) by teh_elb. 



> Earlier this year it occurred to me that at the same time that Stephen was giving his address at the Institute in 1813 Colonel Colquhoun Grant, one of Wellington’s key Exploring Officers, was living in Paris under an assumed identity. The fic very much happened from there on.

McPherson’s note had done much to pique Major Grant’s curiosity. He had found it propped up on the mantelpiece when he had returned from his morning calls, left in an apparently careless fashion, though the major knew as soon as he saw the direction scrawled across the cover that its contents would be of the greatest import.

It was a warm day in Paris. The late summer of 1813 was proving to be kind to the inhabitants of the city, as far as the weather was concerned; less kind was the news from the east regarding Bonaparte’s troops fighting the other side of the Danube. Following the Emperor’s catastrophic defeat in Russia the previous year, the armies of Europe had once again joined forces to strike against the Corsican Tyrant.

Major Colquhoun Grant briefly let his mind turn to his brother officers of His Britannic Majesty’s 11th Foot, the North Devonshires, fighting thousands of miles away in Spain under Lord Wellington. It was over a year since his capture at Idanha a Nova in Portugal, since his subsequent escape from Bayonne; since he had taken the gamble and made his way north, gathering information to send back to Lord Wellington in the Peninsula. So far, it was a gamble that had paid off. For the past nine months he had been living in Paris under the assumed identity of an American army officer. He had come under only the briefest suspicion to begin with, but he had swiftly found his place in Parisian society, keeping to a small but select company, and all the while relaying reports back to Wellington from the heart of the enemy’s camp.

He turned his attention back to the letter. The missive itself was deceptively short, consisting of an invitation to take coffee that afternoon, a time and the address of a cafe along near the Champ de Mars. There was also a personal note scribbled at the bottom, seemingly added as an afterthought;

_Eloïse begs me for news of you._

It was this last line in particular that had caught Grant’s attention. This deviation from the formal prose of an invitation meant the matter must be urgent indeed, for McPherson was by nature of his interests caution itself. That the cafe overlooked the Champ de Mars had not escaped Grant’s notice either. There was a military review due to be held there that afternoon, and so the view from the cafe terrace would provide the major with a perfect opportunity to gather information from another source, along with whatever McPherson had to impart. It might even be the case that one event could have a bearing on the other.

***

Three o’clock that afternoon saw Grant and McPherson seated on the cafe terrace, watching the parading troops with mild interest and a professional eye; the major smart in his assumed American uniform, the émigré jeweller in a grey morning coat and fine white breeches.

“I trust Eloïse is keeping well?” Grant enquired, as a company of grenadiers counter-marched from one end of the field to the other.

“She is in good health, and she asks to be remembered to you,” McPherson said, delicately stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. A refined gentleman of mature years, McPherson always put Grant in mind of an elegant old tomcat; relaxed and poised in his manners, yet at the same time always sharp, always watchful. “She is enjoying Marseilles.”

Grant could not help but smile. An exiled Jacobite supporter long resident in Paris, McPherson was well liked by his neighbours and could list amongst his clients some of the most illustrious names the city had to offer; yet he had no love for the Emperor, and Grant knew the old man to be at the centre of a vast web of intrigue, the extent of which he could only guess. Eloïse was the fictional niece McPherson had invented some years ago as a convenient method of gathering stray military intelligence. The story went that Eloïse, a pretty thing of seventeen, had a liking for soldiers and had been sent away from the uniform-filled capital by her mother for her own good. The dear girl was, however, always eager to learn how France’s heroic armies were faring, and there were plenty of McPherson’s military clients who would happily supply numerous details with which to thrill little Eloïse.

“I was wondering,” McPherson said, after a brief silence as they watched a troop of lancers come onto the field. “Whether you had any inclination towards the scientific?”

“A passing interest, like any other,” Grant replied, wondering where the question might be leading. “Though I do not lay any claim to being a scholar.”

“That shan’t be an issue, I assure you. There is to be an address to the Institute this evening by a Dr Stephen Maturin; a natural philosopher of some great repute. His presence has caused quite a stir, I am told, and many of Europe’s finest minds will be in attendance. I had by great pains obtained an invitation, but find that at the last minute I am prevented from attending. I was wondering if you would care to go in my stead?”

“I should be delighted,” Grant replied politely. “But truly, you are certain you cannot go yourself?”

“Absolutely.” The jeweller did not offer any further explanation. He gazed thoughtfully at the parading troops, idly tapping the silver tip of his cane against the toe of his right boot. “Shall we take a stroll?”

They finished their coffee and walked at a sedate pace along the perimeter of the field. Being such a fine day there were plenty of other people milling about taking the air, but they were too busy with their own conversation or watching the spectacle of the review to do more than spare a glance for the American officer and the smart old gentleman out for an afternoon’s perambulation. Now they were no longer in danger of being overheard, the two Scotsmen reverted to their native English.

“So what is it that’s worrying you over this address at the Institute?” Grant asked in a low murmur. “You wouldn’t be staying away were it otherwise.”

“I have a fear there might be unwanted attention there tonight,” McPherson answered softly. “There’s rumour this fellow Maturin may be in our line of work.”

“For Boney?”

“Against him, though Lord knows in whose interest. He’s certainly not one of ours by anyone’s account.”

“Come, man,” Grant said dismissively. “You know as well as I do that the same rumour starts with every foreign visitor of note here. The army and police see spies everywhere!”

“Save usually where it matters,” McPherson muttered darkly. “But in this case it is different, in that it seems the speculation is being taken seriously. Besides the Minister of Police himself, Secretary Fourcade will be there.”

Grant now understood what had moved McPherson to arrange this meeting. The Secretary was nothing more than a glorified bureaucrat with very little, if anything, to do with true Intelligence; but for Paul-Henri Fourcade to emerge from his lair in the Ministry, the rumours surrounding Maturin must have a firmer base in reality than usual. On that count, there was every possibility Maturin would have come to the attention of Fouché, the former chief of police, and though presently fallen from Bonaparte’s favour, Joseph Fouché was still a dangerous adversary. Grant could see why McPherson was reluctant to attend; if there was any possibility of Fouché being present, the audience would be under as much scrutiny as the speaker. Were McPherson to come under the least suspicion, it would spell disaster for many.

“What do you know of Maturin?” Grant asked, turning his thoughts away from the unthinkable.

“Only that he is an Irishman,” McPherson answered, touching his hat to a couple of young ladies as they passed. “Studied at Trinity and spent some time in Paris as a youth, therefore he has many friends and acquaintances amongst the learned and literate here. He is a qualified physician – cured the Duke of Clarence of the marthambles once – and has these past twelve years been loaning his skills to the Sick and Hurt Board as a naval surgeon, so that he may have the opportunity to pursue his studies of exotic flora and fauna. He only sails under one captain, though; a particular friend by the name of John Aubrey. He is also thought to be a paederast, which seems to be confirmed by the fact that he is a close acquaintance of La Mothe.”

Grant nodded thoughtfully, turning over each piece of information in his mind as it came. Naval Intelligence then, if anything. In such circumstances it would be highly unlikely for him to be under the direction of the War Office or the Foreign Secretary; but an intellectual, an Irishman, and a friend of Adhémar La Mothe? The major could not help but wince at the name. La Mothe was a molly, no denying that, and possibly the most indiscreet man in Paris. Grant knew enough of Sir Joseph Blaine to know that his department within the Admiralty was second to none, yet to his mind Maturin sounded an unlikely agent; such unnatural tendencies were not desirable in Intelligence work, as they would leave Maturin open to exploitation by the enemy in ways other men could not be.

“Would they use him in spite of that?” he asked quietly.

McPherson grimaced.

“I hear that he is an excellent linguist.”

Grant made a grudging noise of assent. There was reason, if any. The major knew from personal experience how vital an excellent command of languages was to the gathering of intelligence; an ability to learn and translate was prized most highly indeed and, in his capacity as a naval surgeon, Grant did not doubt that Dr Stephen Maturin would find ample opportunity to engage himself on the Admiralty’s business in many foreign arenas. Against such advantages, any unorthodox tastes may well have been quietly ignored by his masters.

“Still, you may judge well enough for yourself tonight,” McPherson continued, swinging his cane at a tuft of grass with a satisfying _crack_. “Besides which, there shall be almost as many of society present as of science, so there will be plenty of talk on this affair in Moravia. The reports of the campaign as they stand are wildly conflicting; some say the Emperor is routed, others that it is the Coalition that has been decimated. You may be able to scent the truth of the matter. Still, it is quite amusing; even old General Lambert had to confess his ignorance to me this morning. He was quite distraught to have to disappoint my Eloïse!”

***

The great room at the Institute was crowded to capacity that evening; the air inside humid, and the buzz of conversation from the audience close to drowning out the speaker entirely. On his part, Grant could feel nothing but sympathy for Dr Maturin. After an inauspicious beginning, in which the doctor had startled himself by addressing the audience in far too loud a voice, he had been reduced to mumbling his way through his notes, cowed yet resolved to carry his address through to the bitter end.

The Minister of Police had excused himself under some false pretext barely ten minutes into Maturin’s lecture, clearly having already decided that the doctor was not worth his trouble. This had left his two assistants, Fourcade and Séverin, to gossip and smirk across his empty seat. Of Fouché there was no sign, Grant was pleased to note. Clearly the suspicions of espionage had been nothing more than rumour after all.

“If that man has anything to do with intelligence, near or far, I am the Pope.”

It was Fourcade that had spoken. Grant allowed himself to smile as the man spoke expansively of the cursory checks he had performed on Maturin and the failure of his _agents provocateurs_ to incite any indiscretion, reflecting with some amusement that it was highly unlikely Paul-Henri Fourcade would know a true agent even if one fell on him. Grant knew better than most that looks and even mannerisms could be deceiving; the most accomplished spies were those that it not only seemed improbable, but laughable to suspect. Yet even so, as he observed the nervous little man hunched over the rostrum – sallow-skinned, bewigged and bespectacled, waving some sort of embalmed specimen like an obscene conductor’s baton – it was stretching even the major’s considerable imagination to associate such a creature with the dangerous and cut-throat world of Intelligence; especially as Maturin’s tastes as a paederast were as good as confirmed. The major had turned his attention to admiring the striking American woman in the blue dress and gorgeous diamonds seated beside an unusually subdued La Mothe. Maturin’s patient, he had heard it said, and wholly professional in his conduct towards her; Grant couldn't help but agree that no man of the usual persuasion would remain unmoved by such a beauty. It was a shame he dare not risk associating too closely with a real American, else the major would not have hesitated to seek an introduction. A damnable shame.

Shifting his gaze back to the beleaguered speaker, Grant was beginning to think that Fourcade may in fact be correct in his suppositions – then he spotted a familiar figure seated near the edge of the crowd, and Grant’s expression became grim as he recognised Major Ducos of the Secret Police. So Fouché had not come himself, Grant thought bleakly, but rather than alert his victim he had sent along his _protégé_. Pierre Ducos was admirably suited for observing at such a gathering; a small man, pale-skinned and pale-eyed, neat and respectable in his dress, and unremarkable to look at – in this room he would be taken for nothing more harmless than yet another academic.

At length the address came to a close, and Dr Maturin stepped down from the dais to be surrounded immediately by those intellectuals that had paid attention to his discourse, pressing him with enthusiastic praise, a cup of strong coffee, and gifts of a scientific nature to pass on to mutual acquaintances in England. Grant similarly was exchanging pleasantries with those social acquaintances present, no longer concerned with Maturin but instead keeping a watch on Ducos out of the corner of his eye. Ducos initially held back, keeping his distance, a mildly puzzled expression on his face – clearly he was not sure of his man – yet after a while the major saw him smile, his eyes alight with a mixture of hatred and triumph, and immediately Grant’s blood ran cold. He switched his attention back to Maturin, and saw that the crowd had dispersed and the doctor was standing alone, having finished talking to a tall bearded man. Maturin was obviously distressed and had removed his tinted blue spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose, and Grant was struck by the remarkably pale grey eyes which this simple movement had revealed. Clearly it was the doctor’s eyes that had sparked some recognition in the policeman, for Ducos was now making his way determinedly across the room towards Maturin, grinning like a snake. There could no longer be any doubt; Maturin must be an agent, and he was now in grave danger.

In a split second Grant had decided on his course of action. Snatching up a glass from the sideboard the major strode across the room in what seemed like a casual manner, but on a path that would bring him between Maturin and Ducos. He timed it just right, turning his head a moment before colliding with Ducos, the contents of the his glass slopping straight into the policeman’s face and down the front of his coat.

“Monsieur!” Grant exclaimed, making every appearance of distress and taking out his pocket handkerchief. “My abject apologies, my _humblest_ apologies! Please, allow me –”

Ducos, however, shoved the major aside, whipping out his own handkerchief and furiously wiping his spectacles.

“Oaf!” he snapped. “Why can’t you look where you’re going?”

“I realize the fault was mine, monsieur,” Grant said, feigning hurt. The debacle was succeeding in drawing a small crowd of onlookers. “I was attempting to make amends.”

Ducos glared at him angrily, replacing his spectacles.

“You can make amends by getting out of my way!” he hissed, and pushed past Grant, the spectators drawing back swiftly so as not to get trampled. There were general noises of disapproval and the odd muttered exclamation, during which old General Lambert, who had seen the incident from start to finish, hobbled up to Grant.

“That was most unfortunate, major,” the general said, a worried expression creasing his already deeply-lined face.

“I’ll say!” Grant replied bluntly, drying his hands with his handkerchief and glaring after Ducos. He saw with a sense of satisfaction that Maturin was nowhere in sight, the incident having distracted Ducos long enough to let the doctor leave unobserved. “Do you know his name, general? I’ll be obliged to call him out.”

“I would not be so hasty if I were you,” General Lambert said, casting an uneasy glance at Ducos. Even at a distance it was possible to see the look of utter fury on the man’s face. “That is Major Ducos of the Military Police – an unpleasant character, and not above petty revenge. I’d advise caution in your dealings with him; I wouldn’t put it past him to have you up before the Minister as a spy.”

Grant merely gave a hollow laugh in response, re-pocketing his handkerchief.

“I’d like to see him try!”

Yet Grant knew that the general, even if not understanding the full import of his words, had issued a valid warning. The major had bought time for Maturin, but by bringing himself to Ducos’ attention Paris would no longer be safe for him. He’d survived here for over a year undetected, which was admirable enough; now was the time to show that discretion, indeed, was the better part of valour. The rent on his lodgings had been paid one month in advance; his leaving would not cause a stir, and Grant could be certain of clearing the city without immediate pursuit. He would cut his losses, make for the coast, and find a boat that would take him back to England.

It was time he returned to the fray.


End file.
